


A Helping Hand

by uirgiliana



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Hair Braiding, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 23:58:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17375651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uirgiliana/pseuds/uirgiliana
Summary: There are a few things Maedhros can't do for himself anymore.  Fortunately, Fingon is happy to help.





	A Helping Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Narya_Flame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/gifts).



> A gift for Narya in fandom_stocking 2018.

Fingon ran the wooden comb through Maedhros’ still-sparse hair, tugging a little as the teeth snagged in the curls. Sitting behind Maedhros, he could not see his face, but he could hear Maedhros’ breathing, harsh but kept, with effort, perfectly regular. The muscles of Maedhros’ good shoulder were tense under Fingon’s hand; he gave what he hoped was a comforting squeeze. 

“Is this good?” 

Maedhros nodded, then, as if afraid Fingon hadn’t seen the nod, answered aloud. 

“It’s fine.” There was tension in his voice as well; perhaps it was too much, perhaps he should stop – no. He had to give Maedhros the dignity of taking him at his word. 

“Good,” Fingon said. “I think this is the last of the tangles. How would you like the braids?” 

Maedhros was quiet for a long moment, long enough that Fingon nearly wondered if he had not heard him. 

“A - a longer braid in the back, I think,” he said, “with looser wings at the sides, to cover –” He broke off without naming what they both knew he meant; to cover his ears, or rather the ragged remnants of them. 

Fingon nodded, preparing to take up the comb again, then realized that although he could see Maedhros, Maedhros really couldn’t see him. 

“That sounds good,” he said inanely, and started splitting Maedhros’ hair into bunches in preparation for the braid. 

Struck by an idea, he put down Maedhros’ hair and began unravelling one of his own many braids. He pulled out the narrow golden ribbon woven through it, then did the braid up again before turning his attention once more to Maedhros. 

The healers had cropped Maedhros’ hair close to his head when they had first tended to him after Thangorodrim, and although it was now regaining some of its old length it was not the cloud of riotous curls Fingon remembered from Tirion. It was thinner, interrupted by bald patches from old scars and shot through with white streaks. Yet its glorious color remained, the copper-gilt of living flame, and running his fingers through Maedhros’ hair brought Fingon as much pleasure as it ever had; and perhaps more, since that pleasure now was mingled with gratitude, that Maedhros sat beside him when Fingon had feared him lost forever. 

“Almost done,” Fingon said. The gold of his hair-ribbon looked very well woven into Maedhros’ copper braid, he thought as he tied it off. “And done.” 

Maedhros reached up with his good hand to pull the end of the braid over his shoulder and examine it. He laughed when he saw Fingon’s hair-ribbon in it, and the sound gave rise to a pleasant warmth in Fingon’s chest. It had been too long since he had heard Maedhros laugh. 

“It is lovely,” Maedhros said. “Thank you,” and he turned so he could meet Fingon’s gaze. 

“I enjoyed it,” said Fingon. “Really.” 

Maedhros was still touching his hair, exploring the contours of the braid. He gave an embarrassed little smile when he noticed Fingon watching him. 

“It has been thirty years and more since I have worn braids,” he explained, and Fingon’s stomach clenched a little at the reminder. “I will have to get used to it again – or perhaps I should not, since even the simplest take two hands.” 

“You should get used to it,” Fingon said, “for I will braid it for you whenever you wish. Three times a day, if that is what you want!” 

“A rash promise,” said Maedhros, “yet I may hold you to it.” His lips were unsmiling, but Fingon could see laughter in his eyes. Fingon grinned. 

“Anything you want,” he said, and meant it.


End file.
